Difficult Children
by ArthurDent2
Summary: A kidlock/teenlock, in which John Watson, a sixteen year old boy's family is struggling for money. In order to help out, he applies for a babysitting job for a certain Sherlock Holmes. It's just babysitting, it can't be that hard... right?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sorry, I realise I haven't posted anything in ages, but after I got back from my week away from civilisation, my teachers took it upon themselves to drown us in homework :/ thanks.**

**Anyways, this is my first attempt at a kid!lock, hope you like it! :D**

* * *

John needed a job.

You might think that this is because he could be a thirty year old, still living at his parents' house, but no it is much more than that. John needed a job because he felt guilty, so guilty. His mother, single with two children, was balancing three different jobs, which consisted of waitressing, organizing files and cleaning, and John did nothing. Well, actually he did a lot, and his mother loved him everyday for it. He always sorted out his sister when she was completely pissed, unconscious on the floor, covered in her own vomit, which no 16 year old boy should have to do. He also was his mother's rock, her support; he kept her afloat. But for John it was never enough, he always felt like he didn't do enough; he should do more, help more. His mother almost never slept while he just went to school, like any normal teenager, and he hated it. So, to help his mother he decided to get a job.

He could easily get a job at a McDonalds or Dominoes or some other fast food chain restaurant, and really he wouldn't mind the repetitive menial work, he didn't think himself above that, he really didn't. He would have taken any job really, but the thing was that they didn't pay much, at all. He needed something a bit more, for his family. He considered babysitting because he was good with kids, but it wasn't like that paid much either.

He never told his mother of course, though. She would tell him it was all right, that she had it under control, and that she didn't want him to worry or have to do that for her. However, it was not for her. It was, in John's mind, somehow warped to be selfish. He just wanted to stop the guilt that clawed at the back of his mind every minute of every day.

But that wasn't true, not really, it _was_ for her, for her and Harry, always; of course the guilt part was true, and that too was also out of selflessness, but John constantly found ways to blame himself, hate himself. He really shouldn't either, because everyone who met John knew, as you will find out, that John was someone that you simply cannot hate. He was kind, loyal, selfless, generous, modest, protective, funny, likable, genuine, and all-round a good person. He did not think so though.

He thought himself ordinary, absolutely ordinary and not special in anyway, not important. But we all know that no one is unimportant, and especially not John Hamish Watson.

* * *

Mrs. Holmes was beginning to get desperate. She had hired over twenty nannies and babysitters in one month alone. Normally they would quit after the first day, very few determined ones lasted two. Sherlock took in upon himself to make it some kind of competition, his record five minutes. Literally within the first five minutes of meeting him, the poor girl had been reduced to tears and left.

To clarify, Sherlock was Mrs. Holmes son, and a very difficult person to deal with. He was smarter than anyone you'd ever meet in your life and of course pointed it out every so often (a lot). Oh yes, did I mention he was six? Yes little Sherlock Holmes was a boy genius at the age of six.

He was like no other person you'd meet. At the mere age of two he was already speaking coherently, in fact he spoke more coherently than most adults you will meet. At four he corrected his schoolteacher on several occasions, for example on the first day of school she said, "You're doing so good!" to a boy who had made a truly atrocious rendering of a dog made from macaroni, to which Sherlock said, "You're doing so _well_, not _good_. Honestly, you call your self a teacher. These morons are already illiterate enough as it is, don't encourage it."

At first the teacher was too shocked to respond, but Sherlock was eventually sent home for inappropriate behavior. He had been in school for less than two hours. Mrs. Holmes might have been proud of her sons early development and superior intelligence, but she was just tired, so tired. When Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, was young he appeared to be a normal child, a bit uncaring and cold, but at a normal mental growth, until of course he was tested and shown to also have a ridiculously high IQ. Though Sherlock and Mycroft were similar in many ways, they were mostly very different children. At an early age Mycroft knew he was smarter than the other kids, but was smart enough to know that if he wished not to be isolated, that he should act like them, and he did, but even more than that he manipulated them, all the time, constantly, but they were too stupid to know. Sherlock however was too smart and too proud to act the same. He never hid his talents and didn't mind solitude, or so he said. He had no friends, no one liked him, and it broke his mother's heart. She knew he was hard to handle, but she also knew, no matter how difficult, how rude, or hard an exterior he formed around him, or what a cynical outlook he had, he, deep down, was a wonderful person, and always had been.

Mr. Holmes was never home, he always had business trips. Morocco, Paris, Berlin, Hong Kong, London, Washington, you name it, Mr. Holmes was there. Mrs. Holmes was left to deal with Sherlock, well along with several staff members. Did I forget to tell you? Yes, the Holmes family is very wealthy, and very powerful. But that hardly mattered when it came to finding Sherlock a babysitter, because no matter how much money Mrs. Holmes would throw at them, they would always quit. Sherlock would make sure they quit. He despised nannies.

Mrs. Holmes finally gave up, swallowed her pride, and put down her virtues that had been engraved in her mind from a young age, and put an ad in the paper. She was horrified at the prospect originally, but now she had no other option, that's how desperate she had become. Hopefully, hopefully some one would pick it up and call, and they would be the one that could finally handle Sherlock, the one that could finally care for him.

* * *

John couldn't believe his luck. He was just picking up the morning paper when he accidentally dropped it. Well, that wasn't very lucky because the papers were now strewn everywhere on the ground, but we'll get to the good part in a bit. Anyway, John groaned, and muttered as he bent down to collect the papers, when suddenly something caught his eye.

**Holmes Residence in Search of A Nannie.**

**Willing to pay up to 80 pounds for each working day.**

**Number listed bellow. **

John stared at it for a moment. 80 pounds? A day? That was ridiculous! In fact it was so ridiculous that he thought he might take it.

He ripped the ad out of the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, and then proceeded to throw the rest of it away, it was too late to read it now. You might be surprised that John had a newspaper at all, now that I think of it. As most teenagers would not and do not read the daily paper, but as we've already learned, John is not most teenagers.

Back to the story, John stuffed the crumpled mess into the already over packed bin and grabbed bag, rushing out the door, while stuffing some toast down his throat.

* * *

**A/N: I also realise that that is a strange ending, but I felt bad for not uploading anything in a long time, so as soon as I finished correcting what I wrote so far, I uploaded it. :P **

**Next chapter up soon, please tell me what you think about it so far, in the reviews :D it really helps. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Sorry, it's been a while, and this is a short chapter, but yeah, I don't really have an excuse... Here, I'll make it up to you, you meet Sherlock in this chapter! Hooray! Anywho, hope you enjoy. :) **

* * *

Mrs. Holmes sat at the sitting room table, sipping tea, and warily watching Sherlock from across the table. He sat there, ignoring the snack placed in front of him, arms crossed and a stubborn look on his face.

"Sherlock dear, eat what Mrs. Hudson has prepared for you," she said patiently.

Sherlock did not respond. She waited.

"Sherlock, you have to eat," she said more sternly.

"I'm not hungry," he pouted.

"Sherlock, if you do not eat everything on that plate, I will take your toys away."

He huffed and refused to meet her eyes. "I couldn't care less what you did with them. They have no use to me."

"Oh, no, Sherlock I'm not talking about _those _toys," she baited.

At this Sherlock turned to face his mother, uncrossing his arms to drop them exasperatedly to his side, "Muuuuuummy! Not my experiments!" he whined.

"If you don't want them taken away, then you will eat your food, and not complain."

He sighed, annoyed, but not wanting his things taken away, begrudgingly nibbled at the sandwich in front of him. Eventually the plate was clean and the glass empty. He grimaced.

"See that wasn't so hard was it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but Mrs. Holmes gave him a firm look, and he closed it, but his glower did not waver. It was, not so impressively, about the best she could wish to get out of him. He was behaving very well, at least for Sherlock's standards he was.

Just then, one of the Holmes' maid staff entered the room, a young, mousey girl, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and a telephone in hand.

"Excuse me ma'am. There is a young man on the phone, he says he saw your ad in the paper, and he is interested in applying for a babysitting job."

* * *

John sat in his room, drumming his fingers nervously on his desk, as he dialed the number with his other hand. They picked up after the first ring.

"Hello? Holmes residence, how may I help you?" said a small, female voice on the other side of the line. These people were really very posh, after all. No wonder they were offering so much money.

John cleared his throat, "Uh, yes, hello. I am calling about an add I saw in the paper."

"Sorry?" she inquired.

"Well, here there is an ad for a nanny, in the paper, and I would like to apply for the job," John clarified.

"Oh yes, of course. I will get Mrs. Holmes, one moment."

"Oh, okay. I didn't know that I wasn't talking to her…" John was not very good at phone conversations; he always thought he was being awkward, which only resulted him in actually making it awkward.

He heard some bustling and distant voices, muffled by a hand to the speaker, and waited a minute before someone answered, "Hello, this is Mrs. Holmes speaking," in a pleasant voice.

"Hello, Mrs. Holmes, I'm just, well, uh, calling because I am interested in the ad you put in the newspaper, for a babysitter."

"Yes, I am aware, could you please state your, name, age, and reason for applying," she said, suddenly all business.

John's awkwardness began to kick in again. "Oh, uh, yes, of course sorry. Well, uh, my name is John and-"

"Last name please."

"Oh, okay. John _Watson_. I am sixteen years old and I was looking for a job and I am good with kids, so I was considering babysitting, but I couldn't find a, well, a family to work for, and then I, uh, happened to stumble upon your ad, and I just, well, thought that I would give you a call." Man, did he feel articulate (*sarcasm).

"Sixteen, isn't that a bit young?" she said doubtfully.

"Not really, ma'am. I think I should be able to handle it, just fine," John said regaining his confidence, not wanting her to think he wasn't capable.

"Oh, I'm sure you will." He could almost hear the challenge in her voice.

"Sorry?" he was taken a bit off guard.

"Come tomorrow. The time is 2 o'clock, _sharp_ and the address is 221B Baker Street. Good bye Mister Watson, a pleasure talking with you."

And with a beep, the line went dead.

Maybe this wouldn't be as easy as he originally thought.

* * *

Mrs. Holmes felt a bit sorry for being a little harsh with John. She was a kind woman, but when she wanted, could be quite a, well, not so kind person, especially when it came to protecting her son. She just needed to make sure John was good enough for the job. By no means was she able to do what Sherlock did, but if she just pushed him a little, she needed to see that he was _at least_ able to handle her, or else he would, like all others, give up on the first day. The boy had some potential. He was nervous at first, but when he said "Not really, ma'am. I think I should be able to handle it, just fine," he had confidence in his voice. There was no way to be sure until he actually met Sherlock though. She could only hope finally Sherlock would be able to find someone he could in the least, stand, possibly even admire, and someone who could do the same for him.

Lost in her thoughts, she had forgotten that Sherlock was still sitting across from her. She looked back to him to see the same stubborn expression on his face.

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"NO!" and with that he pushed himself off his chair and stomped away.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter will be up soon! I promise it will not be such a long wait. Please tell me what you think about it so far in the reviews and such, it is much appreciated. :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey there, I'm back with chapter three! Woho! Yeah, well, not much to say about it so... hope you like it! :)**

**PS: to 'Guest' (whoever you are), this chapter is dedicated to you, for your ****impeccable timing and support. :P**

* * *

John anxiously waited in front of the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He glanced at his watch, 1:57pm. Three more minutes to go. She had said two o'clock sharp, and that's exactly when he intended to come.

You might be a little confused as to what is happening, let me explain a bit better. John was standing in front of 221B Baker Street, hand hovering over the ringer, waiting for the precise moment the clock stroke two. It was the day after the phone call with Mrs. Holmes, and he was ready to impress. He really wanted this job. John was very excited but also very confused and a little nervous. The only thing he knew was that he was meant to babysit a child, no idea what age, for this very posh family, who were going to pay him a lot to do it. He really didn't know what he was getting into, he didn't even know the child's gender, let alone their name.

He knew he must have looked strange, just standing there at the front step of this house, glancing ever so often at his watch, to passerby's. Some actually stared at him, but he ignored them. All he cared about right now was making a good impression on Mrs. Holmes.

2:00pm, he looked up from his watch, and pushed the button with a polite single, drawn out ring. The door was immediately answered by, what John could only assume was, a butler.

"Hello, you are John Watson, no?" he said, in a completely cliché, movie posh, butler way.

"Uh, yes," John cleared his throat and continued more assertively, "Yes I am."

"Very good, please come in." He gestured for him and stepped aside, for John to enter, which he did, and shut the butler shut the door behind him. "Mrs. Holmes has been expecting you. Right this way."

John followed him through the house, which was, of course, huge and lavish, to a sort of sitting room. It was very clean and white, and had old beauty to it. His eyes were drawn to a admirable black grand piano in the corner of the room, were a small boy sat, his fingers dancing across the keys, playing a very fast, melodic song. Next to the boy was a stern, small woman, and she looked at him as if she was analyzing everything movement he made. John realized that Mrs. Homes was sitting in a tasteful, floral, armchair, watching, who he believed to be, her son. She looked very proud, and John was not surprised. The boy could not be more than five or six, and he was playing like, well, better than anyone John had ever seen, not that he'd really seen many piano players, but either way, it was still quite remarkable. The boy finished his song with a sharp last note, and turned to the woman for validation. She did not smile, or clap, which John was now resisting the urge to do, she only looked at him and tutted. "Sherlock, you made mistakes. I know you can do better than that. Try again."

The boy's, 'Sherlock', what a peculiar name, face fell a bit and he turned back to the piano, huffing a bit, muttering something that John almost heard as, "I did perfectly fine, why do I even need a piano teacher. Incompetent.." but, of course that couldn't be, he was only a child, John was sure he heard wrong. Sherlock's fingers hung above the keys, ready to begin again, but before he could start the lovely tune, the butler cleared his throat, catching everyone's attention.

"Excuse me ma'am, but John Watson is here to see you."

"Yes, of course."

Mrs. Holmes stood, dusted herself off a bit, and walked towards John, hand outstretched. "Hello John, nice to meet you. I say, you do have impeccable timing."

John took her hand and shook it. She had a nice handshake. It was strange to think about, but John always noticed the way people shook hands. She did not grab his too firmly, nor let it loosely flop in his hand, like a dead fish. John hated those handshakes.

He smiled, "Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Holmes."

She returned his grin with a polite one, and turned to the piano. "Mrs. Jameson, I think that will be enough for today."

The woman nodded, standing from her stool next to the piano, and said, "Very well, Sherlock, practice everyday until our next lesson. I expect no mistakes next time. Good day ma'am."

Sherlock ignored her and Mrs. Holmes said goodbye back, then the butler lead Mrs. Jameson away. John watched the woman leave, then when she was out of sight, returned his view to the small boy. He was a very well, for lack of a better word, John could only describe him as 'pretty'. It was strange to think of a little boy as pretty, but it was surprisingly accurate. He was tall for his age, but you could still tell he was six, because of his still small structure. He was skinny, a bit too skinny, but not unhealthy, it did not take away from his appearance. He had very pale skin, which was only expressed more by his dark head of curls. The boy had very beautiful eyes too, they were multicolored, a mixture of a light blueish grey, and a darker, richer blue, with streaks of light brown and bright green. They were possibly the most amazing eyes John had ever seen. Not only were they interesting in color and shape, they were intelligent eyes, the sort were you can just tell someone is clever just by the way they look around a room, you could just see it. He also had a very sharp face, it was strange to see on a young child, but it suited him well, but still, it was strange for a six year old to have such prominent cheekbones. John would of called him cute, but there was a peculiar sense to him, that you could not imagine him as a regular, cutsie, six year old. John could already tell that Sherlock Holmes was not a normal boy. Just, only, then did John realise something else about Sherlock, though. He was giving John a look of absolute distaste and scorn. But why?

"John this is Sherlock, my son. Sherlock, this is John, he is your new babysitter," Mrs. Holmes said patiently.

"I am aware who this is," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Sherlock," she said warningly, then she turned to John, "Now, I will leave him to you, just some information and ground rules. If he says he is not hungry or has eaten recently, he is lying, feed him. Keep an eye on that. Also, if he needs to be punished, refer to me first. He likes to conduct experiments, but make sure he doesn't do anything too hazardous. He has violin practice at five o'clock and his tutor at six. During his violin you are either free to watch, or you can go to the library, until his lesson is over at 5:30pm. Then, at six you may leave, before exiting, you can pick up your payment from me, although it would be preferred if you stay until his bedtime, which is 8 o'clock. Also, don't forget, Sherlock is not allowed anywhere in the west wing of the house and if you encounter any staff, do not let Sherlock order them, nor you. You are in charge, not him, no matter what he says. Isn't that right Sherlock, dear? And, fair warning, he has a knack for getting on peoples nerves, but I'm sure you'll be fine. You got all that?"

John nodded.

"Splendid! Now, if you need me, I'll be in my office," and with that she left, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

Sherlock still sat at the piano, not saying a word, but now with his arms crossed and a sour look on his face. John walked closer to the boy, now standing only a meter away. Sherlock refused to meet his eyes.

"So, Sherlock, what-"

"You are from a family of a single mother and an older sister. You never knew your father, you were only told that he died a noble death in war, you are not sure if it is the truth, but it is what your mother tells you, so you choose to believe it. Because of this, you are driven towards the army, a true patriot, but you have an interest in being a doctor, so you have been considering a career as an army doctor. You have low self-esteem, beginning signs of depression, a struggling mother, working several jobs, and a drunken sibling. You resent yourself for not being able to help more with your family. That is why you took this job. You wanted to impress my mother, so you arrived just on time, early even, but you waited outside, just in case." John looked at the boy, mouth agape and brows furrowed, a dumbfound expression lining his face. "Oh, and also, you ate a late breakfast for lunch, hash browns and ham," he added satisfactorily.

"What- how did- I-" the words just tumbled from his mouth; he was too shocked to form coherent sentences, but finally managed an awed, "Amazing."

Sherlock's cool demeanor faltered, his arms unconsciously uncrossed, turning more towards the older boy, and he looked at John is confusion, almost taken aback at his reaction. "Really?"

"Of course, that's brilliant! How did you know all of that?"

"Well, I simply deduced all of the facts from observations, clearly there, other people just normally don't see them. I call it the science of deduction."

"You're only a bloody, oh sorry, I mean, you're only a kid and you figured all that out by yourself, just by looking at me? How could you possibly think that isn't amazing?" John blurted.

"Well, it's just not how people really react to me... It's not what people normally say…"

"What do they say then?" John inquired, curiously. How could anyone think this anything short of genius?

"Go away."

"Well, that isn't very nice," John said.

"It isn't?"

"Sherlock, people should realize that that was completely amazing," he paused, "Did your mother say that you conduct experiments?"

"Yes," he answered simply.

"What kind of experiments?"

"I like chemistry. I most experiment with materials, but Mummy won't let me use any of the actually interesting stuff. Apparently, I am too young to use hydrochloric acid, or even pure potassium," he whined a little.

"You… you cannot be, wait, how old are you?"

"Six," he said proudly, puffing up his chest.

"This is ridiculous," John said shaking his head.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, affronted.

"You can't only be six! You're a, well, you're a proper genius!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock's cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink and he said "Um, thank you. No one has ever said that to me."

John knelt down, so that he and Sherlock were at eye level, and used his tone that he used when talking to small children, when they accomplished something, most of the time not very impressive, and praised them for it, that very proud voice, but this time he really meant it. This was incredible. "Really? That _is _ridiculous. I don't even know any people _my age_ how are as smart as you."

Sherlock's eyes brightened and a small smile played on his lips, but then he looked down, fiddling with his thumbs. "Would you like to see my lab?"

* * *

**A/N: And there it is, you're welcome. :P Just kidding. But in all seriousness, thanks all of you guys for all the support. :) You guys are cool. I reward you with 5 bonus awesome points. Anywho, if you liked it then please leave a review, for each review you get 10 awesome points! And if you didn't like it, then I suppose you could still review if you really wanted to... But that is not the point, the point is that I will update soon, so be looking out for that! (Sorry, I'm in a strange mood :P or at least I was... internet man, it's a time machine)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello! It's been a while (sorry about that), but it's lovely to see you all again! :) Here is a new instalment, hooray. Anyways, I don't really have much to say about it... but I hope you like it! :)**

* * *

John held up another flask, examining the clear liquid.

"And this is…"

"Water, it's just water," Sherlock said giggling. He normally would of rolled his eyes or scoffed, but John was just so… funny.

"Oh, right. I knew that," John muttered.

"And this," Sherlock said excitedly, pulling John towards another set up, "is another experiment I'm doing. I'm testing the strength of bones in different animals, depending on different food diets." There were many different little bones scattered all across the table, it seemed almost disorganized, but it you looked, everything was properly labeled and sorted.

"Impressive," John nodded, "What have results shown so far?"

"Well, I've just started, so not much yet, you can see my hypothesis if you'd like though," Sherlock offered, suddenly handing John a paper filled with sharp cursive handwriting, which was much too neat for a six year old.

"Oh, wow. This is only your hypothesis?" John asked, surprised, turning over the page to find the other side just as full.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said confused, cocking his head to the side, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Oh, uh, no reason. It's just so… long," John answered, setting it down.

"If it wasn't this long, it would be too short and not enough in depth, and then it would be incomplete."

"Right," John said, pretending to understand. Sherlock responded with a pleased look. "So, why do you do all these experiments?"

Sherlock's face turned sour, "Boredom. Partially because of my interest in science, but mostly to drive out the boredom."

"You get bored often then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, turning his gaze back to his hypothesis and the bones strewn over the tabletop. John still didn't completely understand, but he did not push him.

"Are you bored now?"

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, "Obviously not, John. I am talking to you; you do not bore me."

John felt a rising feeling of pride. He was one of the few things that did not bore Sherlock. He suddenly felt very special. I mean, really, he had only known the boy for an hour at the most, at this point but he already felt like he was really his nanny.

"Well then, now we've got two hours until your violin lesson," John said, checking his battered watch, "What would you like to do?"

"Oh, well, usually around now if I am not working on my experiments, I would be looking of murder cases," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"What?" John said dumbfounded. Had he just heard that correctly?

"Murder cases, I look over murder cases," Sherlock pouted, "I don't like repeating myself."

John ignored the last part. "Yes, alright… okay then, murder cases, and what do you do with them exactly?"

"_Look over them_. I told you, John, I don't like repeating myself. See? You are making me say everything over again." Sherlock crossed his arms, still pouting.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. You don't have to repeat yourself," John reassured. Normally he might have been annoyed at a child speaking to him like that, but Sherlock just was so… He didn't even know. He just couldn't find himself to be angry. "So, when you look over these murder cases, what do you do with them? Just read them or…" He wasn't exactly sure what else you could do with murder cases.

"I inspect currently or past unsolved cases, and solve them. Of course, I'm always right, but the police never listen to me. Mummy doesn't like it when I go to the police, but sometimes they are so _thick_. I mean the evidence is directly in front of them, but they just don't _see_ it."

"Right then, so how do you solve these cases?" John was still utterly confused, and not quite certain if Sherlock was pulling his leg or not.

"I just examine the evidence they have or most of the time overlooked, and then deduce who the murder is."

"Hold on, how do you get these cases? The newspaper wouldn't have enough information…"

"Easy," Sherlock said satisfied, moving across the room to open a cabinet draw, pulling out what looked like several files. He then plunked them down on the table in front of John.

"Are those real _government _murder files?" John inquired, picking one up and seeing the big read **CLASSIFIED** stamp, "How the bloo- I mean, how did you get these?"

"My brother, he's a government official. Well actually, he practically _is_ the British Government. I take these from his office; sometimes he leaves them lying around. I suspect it's because he wants me to take them though… so I don't get bored I mean, because really, sometimes he makes it far too easy."

"Right…" John was only then beginning to understand exactly what a strange child Sherlock was. He already knew he was a genius, but this was… a different kind of strange. Normally six-year-old boys were interested in cars and superheroes, not chemistry and murder. I was a little worrying, but at the same time, it oddly intrigued John.

Sherlock selected one of the files, and opened it, showing John. "Look at this one. Carl Powers, male, age eleven, died last month, apparently of a freak accident. Visiting London for a school trip, he was an athlete for the swimming team. One day he gets in the pool and suddenly begins to thrash violently, a seizure attack. He has absolutely no records of any seizures before and he was an excellent swimmer. He died before anyone could get him out of the water. The police dismissed it as an accident, but it's not, it is murder. I know it is," he said matter-of-factly, and then looked up at John expectantly.

"How do you know that?" he asked. Sherlock shoved the file towards John.

"Look at it, read the case. Really look. What is wrong with this picture?"

After a few minutes of scanning over the file, John just looked up at Sherlock and shook his head. "I don't know."

"Oh, come on, John! Look!" Sherlock said excitedly.

"Sorry, I'm just not as clever as you, Sherlock," John shrugged. Sherlock continued to look at John, waiting. "Oh, just tell me."

"His shoes, John! Where are his shoes? They could never find his shoes! They weren't in the locker room, anywhere near the pool, at his visiting house or anywhere else. His shoes just disappeared! They didn't walk away, so where did they go? It must be a murder, and it has something to do with his shoes! That's why they are missing, the murder must have taken them to hide evidence!"

"Yes, that is peculiar," John mulled, "but that doesn't mean it is murder. Maybe someone stole his shoes, and it just happened to be the day he died. Maybe they were really nice shoes."

Sherlock looked at John disapprovingly, "You sound like the Yard. Of course it was murder, John." He knitted his eyebrows together and then stated, "There are no coincidences when it comes to investigating."

"Alright then, so it's a murder. Who did it? What do we do about it?" John inquired. Sherlock suddenly felt much better when he heard John say 'we'.

"Nothing. I cannot do anything," he said sighing, "No police will listen to me because I am just a child." He pouted. "I cannot investigate it on my own either. One, because I don't have the resources, and two, because Mummy would never allow it."

"Well then, you'll just have to explain it to me then instead. Maybe the police will listen to me," John offered. It was an empty promise, but it made Sherlock smile all the same.

They spent the next hour together, sitting on the floor, files strewn around them, and Sherlock chattering and explaining each case, while John patiently listened. John was still a little weirded out by it all. After all, he was discussing serial killers in length with a six-year-old, but he found himself strangely comfortable with Sherlock and enjoyed listening to him talk so enthusiastically about Carl Powers. It was possibly the most fun Sherlock had had since the first time his brother had taken him to a crime scene.

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**A/N: Hello, we meet again. If you in any way enjoyed that, reviews are much appreciated (as well as muffins (as long as they are not bran)). Love you all, thank you for all the follows and favourites! Seriously, you guys are awesome. *virtual hug for all* (that is in no way creepy) I should stop talking now...**


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